Lingering
by Koffee XYZ
Summary: Here be a Phantom of the Opera fanfic. It takes place just about a month after the moviemusical, and...yeah, just read it, because I suck at summaries. Also a bit of a WIP.


Disclaimer: I do not own anything. It all belongs to…um, the company that owns the movie/musical.

**Lingering**

_pt I_

The eastern sky was streaked with vibrant hues of orange and pink as the sun slowly rose, its bright yellow disc finally peering above the rooftops of Paris. The light of the new day bathed the prosperous city in a light pastel glow, adding a breath of color to the monotonous gray of the stone statues perched upon the roof of the Opera Populaire.

These lifeless guardians stared down at the gleefully awakening city with unblinking eyes. Inside the walls they guarded, the old stone walls of the greatest theater in all of Paris, however, a very early rehearsal had just begun.

"Come, come!" cried a man's voice, attempting to restore order to the chaotic scene upon the stage before him. "The beginning of act one, if you please, all! The beginning! A run through!"

His efforts were not futile. The roar of vocals and the warming-up of the pit musicians and the reciting of lines…it all dwindled down, in an instant, to silence. The conductor raised his arms, the musicians bringing their instruments to their mouths or their chins, the actors and dancers scurrying to find their positions. Eager anticipation filled the suddenly tense atmosphere of the theater.

With a sudden jerk, the conductor's arms were in motion, waving about to the rhythm of the sudden explosion of melody. The violins squealed with their beautiful delight, the cymbals crashed marvelously, and the woodwinds trilled with enthusiasm. The dancers and choir waltzed onto the stage, elaborate and flowing costumes of bright azure seeming to light up the stage and its scenery.

With the splendor of the performance, even in a mere rehearsal, an outsider never could have guessed the unthinkable tragedy that had so mercilessly destroyed half of the opera house not weeks before. The only evidence of the fire existed within the minds of the witnesses, burned into their memories with just as much of the same haunting hunger and greed as the actual flames.

The Opera Populaire's managers, Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André, had made certain that the fire's damages had been repaired as quickly as possible. They believed that the mysterious man that called himself the Opera Ghost, who seemed not to be a spectre at all, had left, leaving them to rehearse in peace. No longer did they have to worry about receiving notes with the dreaded crimson seal, written in that strange childlike cursive.

In fact, their minds barely brushed against the topic any longer, and it had only been a month!

The opera's phantom did not particularly care if the two fools had forgotten about him. In fact, it would be better that way…as long as he received his salary each month and his box was left empty, though he wasn't entirely sure how this would work if the men wished to forget. The two things that the opera ghost insisted upon were not difficult tasks.

Why was it that André and Firmin had such trouble with them? He supposed he would have to break the lull of silence that had existed between them and drop his managers a line.

So that's precisely what he was off to do. Envelope of white parchment in hand, he slipped behind the scenes of the rehearsal, moving with near invisibility amongst the shadows.

An early morning, though far too early than what anyone would expect. Or wish. However, the routine of these rehearsals, usually quite unorganized and teeming with dramatics - both, theatrically, and amongst the many different opinions and attitudes - was something that had grown with the still, rather young lady. A student, here, she found that the mishap and misfortune of another girl had brought luck to the little, dark headed ballerina known only as Tourmaline.

As tiring as it had been, she found herself wide-eyed and grinning, as always. Something which Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André found a delight about her since she'd received her newly acquired spot upon the troupe. While some appreciated this, others - such as her fellow students - mistook her as some sort of...what had they called it? Sweet-talking, and brown-nosing. Whatever it was, Tourmaline didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest bit. Merely, went on with her own business, and the instructions given to she during practices such as these.

The Opera Populaire had been full of busy voices and bodies, but as they were all ordered to silence, she found it wasn't easy to slip off into her own, childish thoughts. Of course, she was only fourteen; and, with her age came that territory. Though she did try to pay close attention - awfully hard for a dreamer, such as herself. They called her silly for thinking it, and stupid for suggesting it, but she was, more often than not, the conversation starter. Her beginnings always of the old story of the Opera House. Of that Phantom...and as soon as she started in, she was silenced.

The pitter patting of little feet came, as she went along the corner, sent to retrieve something of importance for the Madame Mme Giry, a woman she owed greatly. You see, it was she who had brought her here, found as an orphan. Took pity, another thing Tourmaline did not mind in her position, but often felt a sort of inequality amongst the others.

No matter, she rushed along discreetly, rather quiet, save for the way she practically tripped over herself in the process. Stubbing her rounded toes upon the edge of crate, just as she came about.

She could hear the stanzas, echoing around her. What she had sang. She stepped quickly, half expecting her Angel, and her husband to be there, swords clashing. Her brown eyes fluttered over the stone angels, making her way from her father's grave. Christine hardly noticed when her voice raised once more, in song, wishful thinking. "Cold and monumental..." Her sweet soprano did not soar loudly, almost in reverence for the souls surrounding her as she moved towards the gate. In this trip of memories, so many hurt more than she could bear. But it was important to her: the last few weeks, her mind had been burdened with thoughts of the Opera Ghost, and her Angel of Music. She had to see, if, perhaps, he remained in the desolate and dismal place he had taken refuge in, his domain. Christine had to know. Slowly, she would be tortured, more than even those times in the house on the lake, when she had to choose between Raoul and the Angel. She had to know: did he remain, to wait? What was left for him? Andre and Firmin...had they sold the Opera House after the crash? Christine had fled that night, with such speed to the sea where Raoul had retrieved her scarf when they were young, when her father lived and gave lessons. When he promised:

_My dear, when I am in Heaven, I shall send the Angel of Music to you._

And he had, in an odd, unexpected way. The Phantom was her Angel of Music, and her curiosity had pulled her back to this place of haunted memories. Where her life had been a dream, and music her only need. Back to the Opera Populaire, once more.

He did his best to ignore the pit orchestra's haunting melody, but it really was inescapable. The cast and crew of the latest production had begun working and rehearsing before all of the repairs had been completed. So, naturally, the opera's ghost knew its music inside and out simply by listening. This rehearsal, however, seemed different. Was it only his imagination that made the sound seem warmer, richer? Was it only his mind tricking him into thinking the air was buzzing with enthusiasm, with newly found energy?

Delicate, rushed footsteps interrupted his concentration, the sound snaking its way through the music he'd been so absorbed in before. Immediately, he was on his guard. He stepped into a particularly dark niche between unused pieces of scenery as the rhythmic noise seemed to grow louder and closer. Aha, yes.

His dark eyes followed the graceful form of a young dancer, a new member of the Opera Populaire's cast, as she ran past. It startled him when she stumbled…stumbling was not something often seen amongst dancers here. He momentarily forgot about the letter he held in his hand, his attention momentarily diverted from the very task he'd set off to do.

"Ouch."

Was all that came from the girl, her voice a youthful squeak. Thudding soon followed, and an 'oomph' finally did escape her, stopping herself from falling over yet another crate. In uncertainty of what to do, she hopped about on one foot, keeping quite the balance, as she did, making her way over to sit upon one of those wooden boxes. Bringing her slippered, stinging foot up, she examined it with interest and worry. Her brow furrowed sharply, flustered that she had to retie the silken laces just after she'd gotten the dancing shoe back on. There was nothing too horrible, nothing to despair about. It still hurt, nonetheless, and she pouted to herself. Grumbling a bit while she took a stand. Taking a moment or two to gather herself once more.

Ah. What was it she was sent here to get?

Oh yes. Some sheets of paper, notes for Mme, or for the music they were still going over. The music she could hear lilting from within the stage, to the back of the dark area.

She heard something, then. A rustling of some sort. And her movements were so quick, glancing about, before she spotted a table in the corner. Papers in a small and minimal stack, tied with a red ribbon. Indeed, the one's Madame Giry had requested. A triumphant smile as she snatched them from their station, though the expression was short-lived at that faint sound again. She could sense something, there in the dark. And so, came that squeaky, and sweet voice of her's.

"Is anyone there?"

Christine entered her old sanctuary for the first time since the series of mysterious events had unfolded. She needed to remember them, the happier time in her life.

Yes, she was blissfully married to the recently made Count de Chagny, making her Countess de Chagny, but with the loss of her Angel of Music she had lost a piece of herself. Or, rather, it had been taken away.

After her marriage to her wonderful childhood sweetheart, she had been taken to his home, farther from the Opera House than she had ever strayed. And that was the first portion of his plan, to make her forget. Isolate her from her former life, from the stage, from all song and dance and performing. Take her away from the place where the Phantom might get to her again, draw his beloved wife back into the seductive arms of her teacher. He had attempted to make her forget.

But the memories pained Christine. All the unanswered questions, after she had fled that night. She needed answers, and there would never be another opportunity as perfect as this one.

His songs and music, voice and face, had plagued her every waking moment, and her dreams, or were they nightmares, as well. And if she ever woke up screaming, she couldn't tell him why. Even the mention of those horrific events caused Raoul pain, pain that he didn't need. So she bore it on her own. Until now, when the time to face everything came back to Christine.

When the time her husband couldn't interfere. She came back, to see his Opera House, and with luck, her Angel of Music.

She tread carefully, smiling as she entered the Opera Populaire, and walked to stand upon the stage. She thought she felt a presence, and quickly turned to gaze up at Box 5. The Phantom's box. But he wasn't there.

What had become of her Angel?

A small voice called out. Christine smiled, remembering the times she had snuck about the Opera House, seeking out her Angel. Or, with Meg, when they went Phantom-searching.

Once, they had spent the night in Box Five, and awoken to find themselves covered in a blanket. Christine had not said that she remembered waking up, and seeing a masked face loom over the pair as they slept.

He stood completely still but for his wandering eyes, his hood pulled over his head to shroud his face in a veil of mask and darkness. He watched the young dancer as she made her way to a table to retrieve a bundle of Madame Giry's notes, the thick set of papers secured with a scarlet ribbon. Ah, yes, he recognized her now…

He did not know her name, this was true, but he had seen her amongst the practicing ballerinas and performers, and knew very well that she enjoyed retelling the tale of the theater's great fire and the infamous phantom that was the cause of it all.

This did not bother him as much as it might have done months before. At the sound of her voice, a mischievous smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Had she sensed his presence?

Clearly, she'd sensed something that caused her to question the shadows of backstage, so he decided to reply.

"Perhaps," he responded in barely a whisper, before he, too, seemed to sense a presence somewhere…

"He's there."

Christine spoke now, to the young girl whose name she did not know.

"I assume you've heard the rumors?"

Tourmaline was quiet for the longest moment, feeling silly, as silence seemed to pass her by. That was all...or so, she had thought. Before she found a voice in the darkness. A man's voice, one that she wasn't even close to recognizing. His 'perhaps', though but a whisper, seemed to echo in the shroud of shadows. Her lower lip gave a quiver, her heart shaped mouth looking ready to fall open, to speak. But, was halted by another voice that called out - a woman, whom she couldn't place.

"Wh-who is there?"

Tourmaline questioned, but knew all-too well of whom the woman spoke. There was only one person she could fathom, and his story was her favourite...

"The Countess de Chagny. Christine, that is," she said, trembling slightly. Were her angel to hear her...how horribly would she be punished, when she only wished to know of him.

Hadn't he punished her enough already, with the dreams, and the music, the face and the songs in her head?

He very nearly betrayed himself at the sound of that voice…that melodious, lyrical voice that sliced through even the increasingly intense music of the rehearsal. It startled him beyond belief. Never did he think he would hear that voice again. Why must she haunt him constantly, even if he'd convinced himself that his love for her had gone up in smoke like the very theater he'd so mercilessly plotted against?

He was beginning to think that this was not so. The sudden appearance of his soprano was enough to…he gritted his teeth, not knowing exactly how to describe the sudden flood of emotion that washed over him. To what? Drive someone mad? His eyes closed at the thought. Madness. Oh, the irony.

Silently, he clenched his fists in an attempt to control the nearly uncontrollable wave of rage that accompanied that name. The Countess de Chagny. A long, cumbersome title that, in his eyes, did not fit her one bit. Christine Daaé would be the only name he would ever refer to the singer as. Perhaps it was only because he wished only to summon the pleasant memories that surrounded that name.

Suddenly, he opened his fingers, allowing the small envelope to drop to the floor and slip with a small sound beneath one of the crates. Perhaps that would be enough to indirectly inform them of his presence…

Tourmaline fell silent, once more. Her mind racing, before coming to a thunderous halt. That name...Christine...de Chagny...where had she heard it?

Of course! The story, that she often told herself - always managing to get caught in disbelief, even still - of the Phantom of the Opera; And Christine...that had been the name of the woman he'd fallen for. Loved, and, supposedly taught her in her ways of singing. A beautiful soprano, with the face to match. She sometimes found herself stuck...as to whether or not it was this Christine Daaé, or the Phantom, she had felt more sorry for.

"You have heard the rumors, then." She smiled weakly. No one who hadn't would do this.

"Then you've also heard rumors of how he is always there..." Christine's voice trailed off as something slid with a soft 'whoosh' beneath a box.

She knew what it was, even in the fleeting glimpse: a note, with a red, skeleton seal.

The young dancer's silence suggested to him that she had put the woman's name to the story, and was now fully realizing just who she was speaking to. He longed to speak, but he hadn't the right words…how could he even begin to describe what he was feeling? Perhaps it would be a good idea simply to slip away, to return to his home in the depths of the Opera Populaire and do his best to forget everything.

But Christine's voice had renewed his memories, sparking both a sudden bitterness and deep happiness and powerful wrath all at once. He doubted even his music could once again tear his wounded mind and heart out of the past. He'd gone too far…he dove directly into something he could not easily climb out of again. It would have been better simply to forget.

His mind, at the strangest of moments, alerted him to the sudden falter of the first trombone in the vast musical score that powered the magnificent production. Subtle imperfections gave it personality, but such obvious mistakes could make or ruin a performance. Oh, why was he thinking of _that_, of all things?

"He is always there," he repeated darkly, voice kept low and casual.

The little ballerina continued in her silence, glancing about nervously. She had yet to speak to the woman again, Christine, and had yet to try and call out to whom she knew lurked there in the shadows. The Phantom of the Opera was there...and she knew all-too-well the rumors and stories.

Tourmaline's brow furrowed, feeling just a bit out of place; And small. Awkward in the presence of the Countess de Chagny. Clearing her throat, she stood on her toes, bouncing upon them in a quick motion that only proved her eagerness and inability to stand still. Again, only a child.

"Are you so sure," She asked, though knew the answer already, "that he is here? Now?"

She was a bit in awe at the thought, that the Opera House Ghost was lingering near.

_To be continued…_


End file.
